


everyone's free now (to move how they feel now)

by LouLa



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: I don't know what this is and the tags don't either, Let's just call it a brodown and be done with it, M/M, Square dance as a form of therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa
Summary: Patty takes square dancing lessons.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 19
Kudos: 238





	everyone's free now (to move how they feel now)

**Author's Note:**

> This is super [Patty voice] light and tight. I played myself on twitter dot com yesterday trying to wish Laura a happy birthday and this happened. Partially inspired by the nonstop Dixie Chicks and Orville Peck I've been alternating between, TK's beautiful dancing skills, and that perfectly choreographed locker room shimmy.
> 
> Title from Mt. Joy by Mt. Joy.
> 
> This has in no way, shape, or form been thoroughly edited, and all mistakes are my own.

“Hey, you think Patty’s up for a visit?”

Practice is wrapping up, most of the guys are already off the ice. Travis is just getting into the locker room after staying out a little longer to talk to French Michel about a couple things. Guy’s intimidating as hell but he tells it like it is, and Travis can appreciate that when he’s got a question about his game.

Hayesy is distracted, removing his gear and working on a bottle of that neon-colored shit the trainers leave out for them. He shrugs a shoulder. “Dunno, man. What’s today?”

“Uh, Tuesday?” Travis says. He’s not _sure_-sure, but he’s pretty sure.

Hayesy checks his watch. “He usually goes out on Tuesdays until about one. Lessons or something.” He shrugs again, turning back to his locker.

Lessons. “What kind of lessons?”

Hayesy huffs a laugh. “Buddy, I stopped asking him questions after I found out it just makes him pissier. Ask him yourself. I’ve got shit to do today, but I can let you in before I go if you want.”

Travis does want. It takes him longer to get ready to leave than Hayesy but he waits for Travis, dicking around on his phone and holding up the wall just inside the locker room door. He follows Hayesy home. It wasn’t, like, wholly necessary, Travis knows where he lives, but Hayesy is weirdly considerate at times. A loud mouth mother fucker at ass o’clock every morning, but nice. Travis likes him. It’s a weird feeling not being the loudest guy in the room anymore, but it takes some of the heat off. Hayesy's even better at keeping it light after a shitty loss than Travis is. It helps.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says.

Hayesy gives him a weird look, juggling his keys, phone, wallet, and half a dozen reusable shopping bags in one of his giant mitts. “Yeah, no problem. I mean, he’s got a lot of free time right now, he’s gotta do shit. Don’t make it weird.”

Travis narrows his eyes, wondering if Hayesy knows more than he’s letting on. Make what weird? “I won’t,” Travis hedges, glaring after Hayesy as he leaves.

Travis checks the time. He’s got about half an hour before Patty maybe gets home. Travis posts up in the living room to wait, calls his mom to find out how his Gramps is doing, the dogs, the five other people in Clachan. She gives him the whole rundown of everything that has happened since he left a couple of weeks ago. It’s not much, small town everyone-knows-everyone bullshit, but Travis eats it up, dishes it back out when she asks about Philly, about him, about Patty.

It’s closer to one when he hangs up but there’s no sign of Patty yet and Travis gets bored, starts wandering around the communal spaces of the house. He climbs up onto the little seat just inside the door and crouches in wait but gets tired of that too within a couple of minutes, and figures it’s probably not the best idea to scare the shit out of Patty right now anyway. He goes back into the kitchen and pulls the fancy ass, giant fridge open. It’s pretty bare bones, which is probably why Hayesy took the grocery bags with him. How domestic.

There’s a lot of artsy looking beer cans, IPAs and craft beers that Travis doesn’t recognize. He reads the labels on them, finds out most are from a small, local brewery. Patty never cared about what kind of beer they drank as long as it was cold, so it must be Hayesy’s. Travis puts them all back. There’s a pound of chicken that’s use by date is coming up. He pulls that out, plugs in the press grill that’s on the counter. He can’t find the drip pan in any of the ninety different drawers and ends up having to use a plate wedged underneath to catch the run off.

It doesn’t take long to cook, and by the time it’s done and diced and put back in the fridge, Patty still isn’t home. Travis’s stomach is rumbling, but it feels weird to eat someone else’s food in their own home when they’re not even there. The half eaten box of protein bars he saw in one of the cupboards will have to do, they hopefully won’t notice he took one.

He checks his phone again, texts Law to find out what he’s doing today, and then he hears the door open.

Finally, god.

Travis stalks toward the front room. Patty is looking at his phone, slapping down the hallway in a pair of slides. He’s got a straw hat under his arm, a pair of cowboy boots in his hand. Distantly, Travis wonders if he wore the cowboy boots without socks considering his feet are bare in his sandals. More presently, he wonders what the fuck Patty is wearing, a plaid button down and blue jeans that look like they walked right off an actual farmhand and onto Patty’s legs.

“Where _were_ you?”

“Fuck,” Patty...well, he doesn’t shriek but it’s a close thing, voice higher than Travis has ever heard it as he jumps, head jerking up. Carefully, he schools his expression back into something more neutral, cool and bitchy like he didn’t just almost piss himself. Like he isn’t wearing a whole ass cowboy getup from a vintage catalog. “What the fuck, TK?”

“Don’t _what the fuck_ me, what the fuck, you? Where were you?”

“Out,” Patty says shortly, shouldering his way past Travis down the hall, lumbering further into the house, shoulders all up around his ears. The back of his neck is red. Travis follows, hot on his heels.

“Out where?”

“Oh my god, is it really any of your business?”

“Yes.” Obviously.

Patty opens his closet door, hangs the hat up, shakes a pair of socks out of his boots—thank god—and sets them down next to his row of shoes, his birkenstocks, his other pair of cowboy boots. What the fuck is happening. Travis can tell by the way his shoulders are moving that he’s unbuttoning his shirt. He slips it off, throws it into his laundry basket, where there’s another set of ugly blue jeans and plaid button down. Seriously, what the fuck?

“Nolan Patrick, I swear to god.”

Patty scowls at him over his shoulder for using his full name, but says nothing as he continues to get undressed. The jeans are stupid as fuck looking, not even Travis would wear them, and while he’s seen Patty put on some weird, questionable things, they’re nothing like his usual trendy hipster nonsense. They look good on him. It’s weird to think that cowboys wear their jeans that tight. How do they even get on a horse, or like, bend over? Maybe they’re not that tight on cowboys since they probably don’t have huge hockey thighs or a big ass. Travis has seen _Urban Cowboy_ though, and those jeans were indeed pretty tight. Travis should probably stop staring at Patty’s ass any second now.

He lets Patty finish changing into sweats, a ratty old tee shirt. That’s more like it. “Are you going to tell me where you were? Have you eaten?”

“God, mom, you really have gotten ugly.”

Travis scoffs, “Fucking rude, buddy.”

Patty makes a face like _it’s what you deserve_. “No, I haven’t eaten.”

“I made chicken. I’ll let you have half of it if you answer my question.”

“It’s my food. In my home. You can’t withhold my own things from me.”

“I can and I will.”

Travis knocks his way past Patty into the kitchen, standing in front of the fridge to guard it. Patty could probably push him aside if he tried, but Travis is going to fight him tooth and nail until he gets his answers. Patty doesn’t even make an attempt, grabbing a chair at the raised counter and sitting there.

“Fine. There should be enough for two salads.”

_Yes_. Travis doesn’t fist pump outwardly but he does it in spirit, where Patty can’t see and make fun of him for it. He puts two salads together, cuts up the one avocado that doesn’t feel overripe to top it off. He starts to slide the dish over to Patty and then stops, pulling it back toward himself with his eyes narrowed. “Wait, you answer first.”

Patty reaches out to try and take it from him, but Travis curls over the plates protectively. Sighing, Patty relents. He raises his glass of water to his mouth, mumbles something, and then gulps while Travis stares blankly.

“What?”

“I already said, give me my food.”

“No, you bitch. Tell me for real.” Travis stuffs a forkful into his mouth to rub it in, moaning a little just to make a point. “It’s really good.”

Patty scrambles up half on top of the counter to reach the plates. Travis tries so hard to keep Patty from getting the food that he almost drags them right off the edge. He threatens to stab Patty with a fork, which stops him momentarily, but in the end, Patty doesn’t buy the bluff and ends up with his plate while Travis pouts over his own. “I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Patty chews his food consideringly. “I’ve been taking square dancing lessons,” he says once he’s finished, like it’s nothing, like this whole time it’s been nothing at all, and he’s been holding out for no reason whatsoever, just to make Travis squirm. He says it as Travis is taking a bite, and he chokes, fork clattering down onto his plate. As he coughs, Patty just watches him like a sociopath with a magnifying glass over an ant on a sunny day.

Travis grabs the glass of water, sucks down what’s left of it. “Square dancing?” he wheezes.

Chill as anything, Patty monotonically says, “Yeah, it’s tight.”

Jesus Christ. _Square dancing_. “Wait, you do this in public? How is it not all over social media? Is it?” he questions frantically. Travis regrets maybe for the first time ever not having a Twitter account. How has G not told the entire locker room about this? He’s calling Chase immediately. Chase still uses Twitter, and Travis needs him to find the proof.

Patty shrugs, shaking his head. “I go during the day, it’s all retired wasps and senior citizens.”

Travis needs to sit down. He fills up Patty’s glass of water, then slides around the side of the counter to sit next to him. He picks at his food, hunger suddenly abated. He has so many questions. But first, “When are you going next? I need to see this.”

Patty doesn’t put up as much of a fight as Travis expects him to, either because Travis has worn him down already or because he knows Travis truly will not drop it until he gives in. Patty tells him he goes to a little studio not that far from the house. It’s pretty private, just a single instructor who owns the space and focuses on teaching classical dance styles. He started out taking personal lessons to get out of the house on days that his brain gave him a break until the instructor convinced him to start doing the group square dance lessons. Patty kind of lays it out as a learning and growth experiment. Square dancing takes a group effort, mentally being able to keep up with the calls. It’s far from the physically grueling workouts their bodies are used to but Patty still has to take it easy while the doctors try to figure his shit out. He had to find a low intensity workout to keep himself moving without overdoing it on the days he's not with one of the team trainers.

It makes a lot of sense actually.

As it turns out, Patty doesn’t stick to a schedule. He has an understanding with the studio owner to be able to show up and step into a group on the days and times that it works for him. They’re not beginner classes though, Patty’s been at it for a couple of weeks, has the moves down, Travis wouldn’t be able to just slot in. But fuck it, Travis is a quick learner, and he’s absolutely going.

Hayesy finds them sprawled out on the living room floor with square dancing videos pulled up on the big screen. “You guys are so fucking weird,” he mutters before walking away.

Travis doesn’t remember to check his phone until it’s almost six o’clock. He has thirty seven texts from Lawson. The first eight are about his day, the next twenty six are just _hello_ with various forms of emphasis, and the last three are about how rude it is for Travis to text him only to then leave him hanging like a dick.

Off days in the NHL are the most boring. Lawson needs to get himself a Patty.

—

Travis parks out on the street in front of Hayesy’s house to wait for Patty. The only pointer Travis got before fully committing to this plan was that he had to buy a hat and boots. Cowboy attire, it seems, is not optional at square dance lessons. Jokes on Patty though, Travis already owns the boots and hat. There was no mention of the jeans having to be ugly though so Travis went with a pair buried at the bottom of his drawer. They’re probably his ugliest pair, that should count.

Patty takes his time moseying on out of the house and across the road. It can only be called a mosey, the way he moves in those pants. Each step is slow and measured, purposeful, like he doesn’t want to get his balls pinched in the too tight denim. Travis can stop looking at any time.

Patty doesn’t go around to get in on the other side and Travis rolls down the window to talk to him. “What?”

“I usually walk. It’s not that far.”

Travis gives him a blatant up and down. He’s got his bare feet in a pair of his grossest sandals, his boots clutched in his hand, and the same straw hat Travis remembers seeing under his arm. “You walk there in that? Don’t you get catcalled?”

Patty rolls his eyes and walks away, leaving Travis to scramble to collect his hat, his keys and phone, lock up before jogging to catch Patty. He can see Patty glancing at him from the corner of his eye, and Travis steps out in front of him to walk backwards.

“So, what do you think?”

“It’s fine,” Patty says, sounding bored. “You should have wore a belt, your tuck is a little messy, and only try hards leave their jeans inside of their boots, but overall, it’s not bad.”

Oh, like he’s an expert. Travis huffs indignantly but stops at the next intersection to pull his jeans out of his boots and tries to resettle his tuck a bit more cleanly. He jogs again to catch up with Patty who just can’t be bothered to wait. “Better?”

Patty shrugs but Travis can see the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Obviously it is better. Patty approved.

It’s a quick walk, Patty's sandals slapping on the pavement and Travis's boots clacking in an offset staccato. The studio isn’t much more than a hole in the wall when they get there, but it’s cute. It’s very kitsch with a lot of fake floral arrangements and bad art hung on the walls. Patty leads them over to a short, middle aged woman in a gaudy dress, too many loud colors and a huge puffed out skirt, a frilly neckline. She smiles when she hugs Patty, listens intently when he mumbles away at an explanation for Travis’s being there.

She's very forgiving at his unexpected presence as she introduces herself to him. “It’s Kimberly, not Kim.”

Travis shakes her hand, says, “Travis, or TK is fine,” finds out how much the whole class costs, and pays up.

He thinks he’s mostly going to be sitting this one out, watching to learn the calls and movements, but Kimberly has an understudy that she sets him up with at the front of the class. Kimberly is micced, she joins one of the square formations and once the music is going, she makes the calls from there. Travis gets one round of watching, fascinated by Patty in this weird, weird foreign world where he looks totally comfortable. It’s a good thing Travis has to pay close attention or the intensity with which he stares would be creepy. Everyone switches groups and starts all over again, new partners, new squares. Travis is expected to start following along with his hand gently holding the understudy’s. He didn’t even catch her name.

It’s mostly old people, Travis and Patty are noticeably the youngest ones there, followed by the understudy and then Kimberly herself, and once the next round is complete, they’re told to take a break. Patty comes back over to him grinning. “These old guys tell great fishing stories, if you were wondering.”

He wasn’t but it makes sense. Patty obviously loves this, more than Travis ever could have guessed that he would, chumming it up with some sharp dressed old man going on about the bass in Lake Erie. Travis hangs back even though he wants to cut in because he knows a thing or two about Lake Erie and its bass fishing but this is Patty’s time, it’s Patty’s space. Travis maybe shouldn’t have pushed so hard to get it on it when it’s clear to see how much Patty enjoys it. He deserves things that make him happy with how hard hockey is kicking his ass right now, being betrayed by his own body and forced to stay away from the sport he dedicated his life to.

Patty folds Travis into it though, easy as anything. He stays with Travis up at the front of the class, taking the place of the understudy who goes off to lend a hand to the older folks having a tougher time. Travis holds his hand out, letting Patty decide whether his goes over or under Travis’s, and he gently lays it on top without saying a word. Travis messes up most of the calls, but Patty is pretty patient with him, guiding him through it. He can do the dosado and the really self-explanatory calls, but there’s one called ‘box the gnat’ that he gets surprised by every single time, and the one where the ladies go “whoo” in unison, and Patty joins in belatedly. Patty twists his body all around while the ladies twirl their skirts and it’s all a whole lot. It’s so endearing and charming and Patty’s smiling and it’s _everything_ after the dour and depressing start to the season that Patty has had.

The class ends and Patty is pink cheeked and happy, saying goodbye to the old folks who he knows by name and that all seem to love him like a surrogate grandson. One of them brings him a container of cookies before she leaves and Travis couldn’t be more jealous.

“You’ve got about forty-five minutes before I need to get ready for my next class. I’ll put the music on, you can teach him your dance,” Kimberly says, giving him a significant eyebrow raise before going to stand by the door to wish her other students a good day.

Travis whips around so fast turning toward Patty that he nearly gives himself whiplash. “_Your_ dance?” he asks, wild with glee. Patty’s face is flaming, flaming red. He was already a little flushed from the hour long class, but now it’s bright from embarrassment. It looks hot. If they were alone… They’re not alone, but fuck it, it’s just a bunch of old people and no one is paying them any attention. Travis smashes his hands to Patty’s cheeks, feeling the heat seep into his fingertips. “_Your_ dance, Patty?”

Patty scowls as much as he can with his face caught between Travis’s palms. He grabs Travis’s wrists, pulls his hands away. “It’s stupid,” he grumbles. The music kicks on and Patty’s lips smash together irritably. Like he didn’t just spend a whole goddamn hour dancing with Travis, the idiot. Oh god, they’re so doing this.

Travis shimmies his shoulders to the beat, shakes a little in Patty’s direction, makes an “eh?” sound, as if to say _like this?_ The music is way more upbeat and less hoedown sounding than the class had been. Travis thinks he even recognizes the song as one Patty plays in the car sometimes. Patty gives in, tucks his giant hands into the tiny space of his front pockets and starts to tap along to the music. Travis has such a vivid _Napoleon Dynamite_ flashback that he has to take a page out of Patty’s book and bite his lips together to keep from smiling. He follows along with Patty’s steps, and eventually ends up with his hands in Patty’s being led through a dance. It’s some kind of western swing, Travis guesses, the two of them swaying and moving together.

In the end, Patty dips him so deeply, so quickly that Travis’s stomach swoops. Patty holds him there, and slowly brings him back up, their bodies pressed so close together that it makes Travis’s breath catch. They danced at G’s wedding but it wasn’t like this.

“I hope it’s not this romantic with the instructor,” Travis scoffs, meeting somewhere just left of Patty’s eyes.

“It’s not,” Patty confirms. He’s got a private little smile that makes Travis want to kiss him, but he probably shouldn’t do that in public. They'd both have to take their hats off, it would be a whole thing.

“Good,” he settles for saying, pressing his face into Patty’s shoulder, biting his shirt because he’s feeling too goddamn much all of a sudden. The music is still going, and they’re not even close to moving with the beat, but it feels right, Patty’s hands clasped behind Travis’s back, Travis leaned into his chest.

“There’s a hot yoga class I could take you to, if you’re interested,” Patty rumbles, and Travis feels it in his teeth.

He pulls back, and seeing the smirk on Patty’s face leaves only one thought in his head: _fuck_.


End file.
